“I will not attempt to understand you,” said Fillmore, smiling also. “If you please, we will proceed to the particulars.”
Hereupon the two entered upon a prolonged discussion, into which we shall not be obliged to follow them; since what is of import in it will appear in its proper place. At a few minutes after four o’clock the colloquy ended, and Mr. Grant, after shaking hands very cordially with the lawyer, bade him farewell and went down stairs.
CHAPTER XVII.
WHEN Mr. Grant got to the door of the building, he found Sir Francis Bendibow awaiting him in a small but stylish turn-out with two horses. He took his seat beside the baronet on the box, and the footman sat behind, with his arms folded. In this fashion they drove westward.
Sir Francis knew how to make himself an entertaining companion, and he availed himself of his knowledge on this occasion. He talked volubly and genially, giving his companion the gossip of the society of that day, a society which somehow seems to have been more amusing and eventful, and to have possessed more character and variety than is the case in our times. The footman with folded arms had often listened to his master’s conversation sallies, but had seldom heard him so agreeable as on the present occasion; and he inferred that the gentleman, his companion, who said very little, but whose manner was courteous and attentive, must either be a particular friend of master’s or else some one from whom he had received or was anticipating a favor.
“We should see more of each other, you know, Grant,” the baronet said heartily. “A man makes many acquaintances as he moves on in the world, but, damme, there are no friends like the friends of one’s youth, after all! No friend has been more often in my thoughts during the last twenty years than you have, and good reason, too!” To which, and to much more of the same tendency, Mr. Grant responded in terms of grave and composed politeness. Altogether it was a very amicable drive, and the weather and the roads were all that could be desired.
Their route lay through Richmond and across the gray stone bridge that separates the town from the parish of Twickenham. “When you ride home to-night,” said Sir Francis, “you’ll find it an agreeable change to follow the Isleworth road, on the west bank of the river; and cross by Brentford Bridge. Mighty pretty quiet stretch, and but a trifle longer if at all.” The footman could have told exactly how much further it was, but of course held his peace, as he would have done had the baronet affirmed it to be two miles shorter. Still bowling easily westward, the horses tramped through the narrow winding street of a sleepy little town, which seemed wearied out as it were with the burden of its historic associations, and drew up at last before a wrought-iron gateway in a high brick wall, the bricks cemented with green moss and crowned with ivy. The gate having been promptly thrown open by the alert footman, the horses tramped through it and up the graveled crescent of a drive overshadowed with fragrant lime trees, until their driver pulled them up before the gabled portal of an elderly but comfortable and solid-looking edifice, faced with white plaster, and dignified by far-projecting eaves. Tossing the reins to the man, Sir Francis got actively down and assisted his friend to alight. They entered the house arm-in-arm. A large cool shadowy hall received them; beyond, a broad staircase, and opening inward to the right of it a vista of spacious drawing-room, with windows giving upon a verandah, and a rich lawn at the back of the house.
“Serve dinner at six, sharp!” said Sir Francis to the obeisant butler. “Now, my dear Grant, no ceremony here, you know; but I remember your fastidious habits. If you want to wash your hands, give yourself the trouble to follow me up-stairs, and I think you’ll find everything arranged to make you comfortable.”
“Uncommon civil the governor is to-day,” remarked the butler to the footman, when the two gentlemen had disappeared in the upper regions. “Who his Mr. Grant, I’d like ter know?”
“Ha! you may arsk that, Mr. Tuppin,” returned the footman, with airs of superior knowledge. “You may arsk that, and no blame to yer!”